


Inseparable

by orangeCrates



Category: Assassin's Creed, Namesake (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeCrates/pseuds/orangeCrates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bond between a Namesake and his Writer is intimate, complex and, above all, powerful.</p><p>A Namesake lives his story and his Writer records it. But the storyteller has as much influence over the ending as the one living it, because words have power and words are a Writer's tool of trade.</p><p>Sad Writers will create sad endings and, for all that Altair has taken from Malik, he thinks it would be the least he deserved.</p><p>In other words: this is an AltMal Namesake!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inseparable

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: “Namesake” is the copyright of Isabelle Melançon and Megan Lavey. This story/art is licensed under the Creative Commons as a derivative, non-commerical work. No profit is being made off this piece.
> 
> And, if you haven't read "Namesake" before, you should. It's amazing.

They are sitting on the old beat up couch from Malik's apartment. Altair sits with his back on the arm rest, his feet slung over Malik's lap while Malik sits with a book in his hand on the other end of the cramped couch.

In a few years, Altair will shoot up in height and his legs will be too long to sit like this comfortably. But for now, everything is still perfect.

Malik stops reading out-loud to give him an exasperated look.

"I don't get why you can't just read it yourself."

He does not, never does until much later, admit that reading gives him headaches. Instead, he leans back, with a smirk.

"I have you, don't I?"

And for that, Malik closes the book, carefully saving his page before bringing it down on Altair's ankles hard enough that Altair jerks back with a hiss.

"Lazy ass." Malik reaches up and pulls off his reading glasses to rub the bridge of his nose with his left hand and Altair watches the motion as if fascinated. "If you don't want to read it yourself, find an audiobook or something."

Altair curls his legs back and pushes himself up so he could crawl over to straddle Malik's lap. Malik, for his part, grumbles half-heartedly but doesn't resist when Altair takes the glasses from his hand and threads their fingers together.

The tenderness of the moment makes his heart ache and suddenly Altair understands what this is. Altair bows his head so their foreheads pressed together and closes his eyes.

"Forgive me." He breathes, and reflexively tightens his grip. Because here is the only place where he could ask this, the only place where he dared.

"Altair." There is an urgency in Malik's voice that seems out of place in this place, in this time. There's a quality to it, something too old and too weary (and too afraid) that is at once familiar and foreign.

"Altair." The voice is sharper, almost angry, "I know you can hear me!"

The grip on his hand tightens, but their fingers are no longer interlocked, and the grip turns painful.

"Wake up, damn you!"

...and there is a command in those words, a flutter of blue that he couldn't find it in himself to disobey.

(And even if it weren't, he would have followed them anyway, would have followed _him_ if he just asked.)

It is more difficult than he thought it would be, waking up. It was like trying to swim through molasses, but there is a hand in his and, unconsciously, he curls his hand tighter around it.

When Altair's eyes finally open, the first thing he sees is Malik's face. Older and more worn than the one in his dream, but Altair couldn't completely convince himself he wasn't still dreaming when he sees the concern written in his expression and the relief when he sees that Altair is awake.

~ + ~

For a while, they had both been watched after the incident that lost Malik an arm and a brother.

Writers do more than just record a Namesake's adventure. They can actively affect it...they could even do it without realizing.

A Writer falling in love with his Namesake was dangerous enough.

No one wanted to know what a Writer that hated his Namesake could end up doing.

So they were kept apart and monitored carefully.

Malik hadn't protested, but Altair had, but in the end, the decision to keep them apart was upheld. It wouldn't be forever, it wasn't possible to keep a Namesake and his Writer apart. But until they could be sure they wouldn't do something they'd come to regret, it would have to be done.

Altair had gone against those orders only once and the resulting meeting had gone so poorly that he didn't try again. It wasn't so much the anger or the threats on his being that did it, no.

It wasn't even the naked loathing in Malik's eyes (though that had hurt in a way he never expected anything to).

No. It was the ruins of Malik's left arm, the stark reminder of what he had caused that sent him running.

~ + ~

Altair isn't even surprised when he wakes up and Malik isn't there.

It is easy to dismiss Malik's concerned face hovering over him as a figment of his imagination, something that he saw because some days he wished so desperately for those early days when he'd wake up in the infirmary in Calliope to Malik's lectures about discretion and caution and _damn it, Altair are you even listening?_ which happened less and less as his skills grew and then never happened at all after the loss of Malik's arm and Kadar's death.

(And he also longed for the days when Malik's face was the first he saw even when he wasn't laid up in the infirmary. The small, intimate smile that was for him and him alone in the early hours of the morning.)

He isn't surprised because _of course_ he wouldn't be there.

Of course.

Still, he couldn't help the bitter bite of disappointment.

 _That_ lasts until the moment Malik pushes the door open, and then all Altair could do was gape from where he's sitting up.

Malik didn't seem to be much better, standing in the doorway looking as if he isn't sure what to do now that Altair is awake.

They stare at each other for a moment, mere meters between them that feel like an immeasurable gulf.

As usual, Malik finds his bearings first, closing the door behind him and walking over to take the seat by Altair's bed.

"So you finally decided to stop lazing around and actually wake up?" There is no real heat in his voice and that does nothing to reassure Altair that he isn't still dreaming. He couldn't even remember the last time Malik had spoken to him like this, without venom dripping from his words or, worse, with such complete and total apathy as if he couldn't care less if Altair disappeared from the face of the planet. Altair's hands curl around the coarse material of the blanket, unsure of what to do when presented with a Malik who didn't seem to hate him.

It didn't go unnoticed by Malik who only watches him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he sighs. His shoulders slump and he looks so _tired_ all of a sudden and Altair can't decide if this is worse than apathy or not.

The apathy and the anger hurt, yes, but it never managed to make him feel so helpless.

"We've really made a mess of things, you and I." Malik murmurs as he covers one of Altair's hands with his own. Altair can't help but tense, as if expecting a blow even as he wanted nothing more than to turn his hand and catch Malik's in his own, thread their fingers together but he is held in place by the realization that this is real even if it shouldn't be possible.

"...it was my fault more than yours." Words that he's wanted to say but never did, first because of pride and then because of guilt. Because he has no right to want any of this...and yet he couldn't help it.

Malik just shook his head, "We are both to blame for what happened."

And Altair knows they're not talking about this incident and his gaze drifts to Malik's left, where an empty sleeve is pinned to his shoulder.

"Enough." Malik's hand moves from his to the back of Altair's neck and gently, but firmly turns his head to meet his eyes. He makes sure to hold Altair's gaze before speaking again, "Enough of this. What's done is done." His thumb strokes lightly at the skin near his ear, "It is in the past."

Altair's eyes widen, because he knows where this is going and it is the strangest thing, to want something and yet be afraid to hear it at the same time.

"Malik--"

"Stop." And there's no power behind that word, no blue of magic accompanies the word and yet Altair obeys it without question. Malik draws him in, so Altair's head rests on his shoulder, so they were pressed cheek to cheek. "There is nothing left for you to atone for."

And Malik doesn't say that he's forgiven Altair long ago, even if he wasn't ready to admit it until now. He isn't sure Altair is ready to hear that if he's having so much trouble accepting just this much.

~ + ~

In the end, weeks after Altair had been released from the clutches of the healers, Malik sits himself on the end of the couch and casually settles his feet on Altair's lap.

"I just wrote something." He says airly while waving around a piece of paper, "I'd like to hear your opinion on it."

Altair is automatically wary, but there's interest there as well and Malik flicks his wrist to straighten out the paper even though he knows the words nearly by heart.

He begins to read.

It is short, not really a story, but a part of one. He's sure Altair knows the rest of it though. It is, after all, his story.

He had written it because for all that Malik has forgiven Altair, he still has not forgiven himself and it is clearly written in the guilt that Altair still looks at him with and in the way he accepts every gesture of kindness and camaradie Malik offers with equal parts trepidation and awe, as if Malik's goodwill may suddenly evaporate if he steps over some invisible boundary he was not meant to cross.

He had written it because he was tired of it (and because Malik knew he had some hand in it), the way Altair seems determined to keep punishing himself.

The room is oddly silent as he reads, and he doesn't look up until he gets to the second paragraph, the one that starts with, "And the King of Swords said, 'I have forgiven you, my friend.'" He looks into Altair's wide eyes, "Now it is only a matter of your forgiving yourself."

The ending is not one of those fairytale-esque, and-everyone-lives-happily-ever-after endings, because that is not the kind of ending Malik writes. But it is a good ending because Malik believes in honour and people getting what they deserve. He's also come to believe in forgiveness and, more importantly, in redemption. He believes in the sort of happy endings that aren't perfect, but where things work out in spite of it.

And it takes a moment for Altair to find his voice because he knows this is more than a draft, it is a wish, a blessing and a gift, because Namesakes change the world through living out stories and Writers change stories by writing them.

Finally, he shakes his head, still staring down, "I do not deserve what you are giving me."

"I am not interested in arguing that point," Malik sets the paper down on the coffee table, then moves so he's sitting right beside Altair, reaching out to turn his face so they were looking at each other. "Regardless, it is what I want for you."


End file.
